Tonight, while looking at my new friend Yani’s beautiful profile picture on FB, I spotted a familiar face in the ad column. Hello me.
I don’t know what to say. I hate it. I hate that an ad exists where I’m talking about my son dying of a brutal, horrifying disease like Pertussis. I hate that those words knew how to come out of my mouth. I hate that they’re true. I hate that we are a horrible tragedy. I hate that we are a tragic statistic. I hate that I watched him suffer the way that I did. I hate that I watched him, helpless, lying there, and that there was not a thing I could do to help. I hate that one of the last memories I have of him with his eyes open, was right as they sedated him for the first time. . . he locked eyes with me as he drifted off to sleep. I hate that I could see the horrible pain in those beautiful brown eyes. I hate that he died. I hate it. I hate it all. I hate every ounce of it, and I wish I could change it.
I see things like this ad and I think “That poor girl,” as if I’m completely disconnected from her. I hate to admit that sometimes, like tonight, I feel completely disconnected from what happened to us. I hate feeling that way, because really what I’m feeling, is the absence of feeling, and I’m convinced that there’s no feeling in the world more frustrating, more maddening, than the lack thereof.
Numbness frightens me. I don’t like feeling detached. I want to feel connected. I want to feel my pain. Not in a masochistic kind of way, rather I want to feel connected to my sorrow, because that’s where he lives. And I never want to forget him. But more than that, I want to feel my sorrow, because I know it’s there. I want to let it out, because when it stays inside, I’m suffocated. And I hate it. Hate, hate, hate.
But, do you want to know what I love?
I love that tomorrow morning, the sun is sure to rise, and I love that if I’m lucky, I’ll find a moment to go outside and stand in it. I love that at 7 am sharp, I’ll hear little feet pitter patting their way to the potty and then in to make sure I haven’t sleep a solitary MOMENT longer than necessary. I love that I’ll get to make breakfast, wash dishes, hold hands, make lunches and kiss boo boos. I love that at one point or another, I’m guaranteed to want to hide in the bathroom to find one tiny moment of solitude and peace. I love that there will be chaos, all kinds of glorious madness, and that I’ll have to walk a 4 year old to the naughty chair approximately seven hundred and forty-six times. I love that I get to go read to a classroom full of snotty nosed kindergartners, and I love that I’m the kind of mom who will do all the voices. I love that the day will stretch, pull, trample and prod at every recess of my heart and that it is likely to test my will to the breaking point. . . because all these things are evidence that life is good and that God always giveth FAR more than he taketh away.
Me